


Two Hands Are Better Than One

by whosplayerthree



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I can vouch for this, Kinda, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Sensory Overload, being mentally ill and/or ND is not always a Good Time, major longterm pun and word play abuse, minor brief self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whosplayerthree/pseuds/whosplayerthree
Summary: The up-keeping of your mental and physical being are equally important. Junkrat is having a bit of trouble with both at the moment (or, more than usual).





	

**Author's Note:**

> A vent fic I started awhile back when I was overly agitated from returning home from a busy stressful day and prevented from relaxing by technical issues that just would NOT let me fix them. And noises. And---well I'll just let the fic finish the story. So, instead of doing all I wanted to do out of frustration, I wrote this. And it surprisingly soothed me. I was going through an over stressed period of time due to Life (even for my life), so whenever it became a bit too much, I couldn't articulate my thoughts, and felt I was finally about to snap, I'd work on this. I don't want to actually do that. HE can do that. I don't want these feelings. HE can feel em (and sorry Junkrat, ol' buddy ol' pal; cruel to you, but it worked). I want a hug and have no hugger here to hug. He gets a hug. And so on. When I finally forced myself to count it as "done", I decided it was pretty alright, if I do say so myself, so sharing it with you all here. Was soothing to write, so maybe it'll be soothing to read too for someone who experiences this sorta thing. Also, this isn't written with him having any SPECIFIC mental illness or neurodivergence in mind. I have ADHD, anxiety disorders, depression, and autism, so it was written with some of the symptoms and "feels" you can get from those in mind. All I know for sure is he has something that causes mania (my intent here and what I read from canon), so I guess that's my only intent. So, from there, please read him as or project what you want. I'm going to stop this note now before it becomes as long as the work itself. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

He wanted to grind his teeth. Not just his molars. His front teeth. And not just grind. Push them against his bottom two until they snapped. Push with all his frustration until they snapped like he felt _he_ would any second (though most people, including himself, would argue he’d been snapped for a looooong time already). Or snapped like this stupid hunk o’ junk arm he’d snatched off a _literal_ hunk o’ junk broken-down stupid omnic back in the outback. And now it sat on the desk in front of him, back to it’s hunk o’ junk status. All because some stupid fallout shrapnel from his OWN stupid bomb ( **no** no he was stupid, not the bomb;  _nooooo_ nonononono, _his_ bombs were never stupid--- _his_ _bombs_ were all beauties and works of art….it was his fault, his fault, _his_ fault) had to get lodged in his stupid metal arm while on that _stupid_ last heist, so now the _STUPID_ thing was on the _STUPID FRITZ!_ .... **STUPID**! .....STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID!

Pretty much all Junkrat could _think_ was the word stupid! That and nonsensical internal screaming, self insults, and half finished, indiscernible, frustrated sentences. So really, he basically couldn’t think. Like, _really_ think! Real actual think thinking. He’d been fiddling this this hooly piece of dooly--- softly growling and muttering nonsense to himself--- for _sooooo_ many hours (or maybe it hadn’t even been _one_ stupid hour….everything felt like it was moving so _**slow**_ ) he couldn’t even think anymore! And thoughts were what he needed right now to figure out how to fix this (stupid stupid stupid) thing! But he couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t figure out what was causing that ( _stupid_ ) pinky to keep on twitching. It’d started doing that when he’d managed to **_FINALLY_** get the (STUPID STUPID STUPID) elbow to stop sparking. One problem fixed would cause another to spring out at him. Every frustration just lead to another! And so on and so on and so on! AND! SO! ON!

…..And...And he couldn’t _take it_ any more! He needed to think--- think of the next solution, something he hadn’t tried, a possibility he wasn’t seeing-- but instead there was just noise! It was like there was too much in there at the same time, all trying to get out at once. It was like a tangled ball of snakes had been packed into his skull where his brain should be-- packed from wall to wall-- and they all were trying to find the exit. But instead, they ended up just pushing up against each other, pushing eachother out of the way, pushing eachother forward so they kept missing the way out, pushing against the sides of his skull in desperate attempts to break free. His head was full of snakes! Just a ball of wriggling snakes! Except all of these snakes were slithering at 100kmph…And screaming…And occasionally pulsating or vibrating......

Except none of any of that, because that’s stupid. Why was he wasting the little remaining room for brain function he’d got left thinking on _this_ ?! Alright, alright, point **was** ! He could _tell_ actual thoughts were up there, but he just couldn’t nab em. He could almost see the ideas, almost hear the words, almost grasp them in his hand, but it was like something was holding him from it. And if he _did_ keep on reaching, he’d lose sight of it in the mess before he was anywhere **close** to pushing through. Usually he was lost--- **DROWNING** in his thoughts….Now he could **barely** even _touch_ em! He needed to keep a calm (remaining) hand, but instead he was fighting with the _very_ strong urge to jam his (stupid) screwdriver into the (stupid) thing’s wrist that was wriggling on the table right in ( **stupid** ) front him and---

Oh great! Now it started making that clicking noise again! Oooooh yeah! That was great help! The junker didn’t have the willpower to stop himself from ripping out more of his already patchy hair. It was that or screaming and throwing everything within reach of his remaining arm across the room. Which probably would make him MORE frustrated. He’d probably just try to move his currently absent arm while trying to do so, like he already kept attempting while fixing the USEless thing lying (and now not twitching, but STILL CLICKING! CLICK CLICK CLICK **STUPID** _CLICK_!) in front of him. And _oh_ ** _yeh_** had it made him feel more frustrated. So frustrated. And helpless. And useless--- useless as the orange piece of omnic scrap he’s been hunched over (and **_grraaaaghh_** , would the ruddy thing stop clicking already?!-)! And it wasn’t just cuz of missing an arm. It was his current inability to do anything (every click, every noise-)-- or at least anything that made any progress, two arms or not! And he _hated_ those feelings! _He_ couldn’t name em at the mo’ (every click click STUPID STUPID click-) but they were there, just heaping more frustration on the heap of it currently crushing him (-every single one of em, those damn damn clicks, echoing inside his already crowded head, was sending him closer and CLOSER TO-). He didn’t need **control** , ‘cause he was _never_ in **control** \--- not of his surroundings and not of his own brain (-closer to….something….closer too…. ** _GRRAAAGHH)_** _-_ \-- but he needed to be able to do _something_. _Anything_. **_Always._** But right now? Right now he couldn’t! He couldn’t do anything! Nothing! Nothing at all! (Couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't breathe couldn't think couldn't breathecouldn’tthinkcouldn’tbreathecouldnt’tthinkcouldn’tbreath) He needed his arm to fix his arm and he couldnt arm his arm without a fuckstick second arm all to fix this bodgy ‘ _can’t even give a good wristy_ ’ arming arm! Arm armarm, ARM!

And oh ye! Ye! Yeeeeeeeaaahhhhh! **Perfect!** Because the _whole universe_ decided this very moment was _The_ _Moment_ chosen by destiny to dish out every last piece of suffering the world’s most hunted junker had coming to him, the hunk-o-junk desk light in this hunk-o-junk motel, what he was using to _see_ his hunk-o-junk arm, started flickering! Again!

That was _it_! The snapping point! It’d been reached! Snap was now in the past tense! Snapped!

He screamed through his nose as he slammed the screwdriver into the table, point first, and his arm shot out to grab the lamp. And grab it he did, like he would some puny Suit’s neck if he was aiming to strangle em. He squeezed and shook, and shook and shook, and SHOOK, and when that didn’t pan out, he brought it into the air and slammed it back down. And then again.  And again, and again, and again and againandagainandagain!

And then there wasn’t any more light.

And then he slammed it one final time, and let go.

His hand returned to his head to pull out more hair, as he curled his legs to his face, and let out another muffled, closed-mouth scream.

It cut off short as Junkrat felt a large, warm weight on his back and shoulder.

“Radiation poisoning doesn’t need your help with that.” rumbled a voice right behind him.

Junkrat stopped yanking out his hair, but didn’t let go. After what felt like an eternity of stillness, Roadhog started rubbing his thumb up and down on the scrawnier junker’s stiff, hunched back.

“Breathe.”

Junkrat hadn’t realized he’d stopped. He slowly took in a lung’s full, realized how shallow he’d been breathing up until now, and released just as slowly. He felt stupid for how much better that had him feeling already.

The hand remained in place, giant thumb now rubbing (relatively) small circles, until Junkrat finally let go of (what was left of) his hair, and lowered his legs. After he started to unclench his muscles, the huge hand shifted so fingers brushed over his stump where his metal right arm usually covered. It was far too gentle for a hand that Junkrat had personally witnessed crush bones (probably could crush rocks too, though ‘Rat’d never seen that--- but they probably could.....oh good he could think again).

“Come back to it in the morning. You'll see better then."

Junkrat looked up at his robotic arm, then over to the lamp’s corpse, then sheepishly back at his lap in silence. Of course, it wasn't a **long** silence. It never was. Not with Jamison _‘had to have his mouth literally taped shut to let his voice recover that time he talked it raw’_ Fawkes. He let out one of his manic giggles, like the last...however long that nightmare’d been (note to self to get a watch….or maybe that would just make times like that even worse….whatever, he never remembered his mental notes long) had never even happened. Except, it _had_ happened, and it showed. His laughter was as involuntary as ever (always felt more like he’d sprung a leak than just finding something funny; like the laughs were in him the whole time just waiting for the slightest nudge for em to start bubbling out), but breathier and lacked commitment in volume.

“Oh, but _Roadie._ ” Junkrat sighed, placing his remaining hand over his heart and cocking his head at his looming mountain of a friend, _“_ Who needs that bodgy ol’ **lamp** for workin’, when I’ve got YOU here now t’ brighten me world?”

He batted his (mostly singed off) eyelashes at Roadhog, until his piggy pal huffed (or maybe snorted a laugh-- Junkrat could usually tell the difference despite the distortion from ‘Hog’s gasmask filters, but he was _tired_ right now….and either of those responses would fit his fancy, really), at which point ‘Rat’s pouting lips cracked into his standard shit-eating grin. His giggling resumed, and increased in volume as he was scooped into the air.

Roadhog lumbered towards the bed with his ‘boss’ in his arms (be quite the sight to see were there any witnesses, seeing as men around 195 centimeters tall _probably_ weren't meant to be cradled like a lanky baby --- but what's a tree to a skyscraper). As they approached, he huffed again (this one was definitely a huff), a sign to Junkrat that it was time to stop wiggling his legs about as his bodyguard tried to remove his metal one. It was a sign that for once the noodle of a man followed, but not without an obligatory mocking huff of his own in response.

When the deed was done, Roadhog leaned the pegleg against the bedside table, easily reachable from where Junkrat would soon be sleeping. The sight of it, combined with how he was currently being held, triggered the memory of the line ‘Rat’d cracked at ‘Hog through his pain after losing that second right limb _(“You’re right, Hoggie. I really aught’a be more careful. If I keep this up, I'll have nothing_ **_left_ ** _of me”_ ). When he settled down from the tittering that the (for anyone else, grim) memory set off, he sighed, patting his pal’s chest lazily.

“Ya really are th’light of my life, mate. Hog that’s hoggin’ me heart. Couldn’t live another day without ch'a."

Even though he knew any second now he’d be dumped onto their bed, Junkrat turned his head to smother his face in the warmth of his partner in crime( and everything else)’s comforting skin….. Right into the big lug’s armpit.

“Even though ya smell horrible.”

His voice was muffled, but Roadhog still seemed to catch it (as a fluent speaker of The Mumbles rightly should).

“You’re one to talk.” said Mister Huffington Hog Esquire the Third, huffing yet again ( _this_ time it was an amused one; there'd been a short cough after it that Junkrat was ninety-nine percent sure was meant to be a laugh….or ninety-seven percent….. _mmmm’nnnno_ ninety-seven point five).

“ _Ye’_? Been liftin’ your mask t’ sniff me hair when m’ back’s turned, ya weirdo?”

The stinky rat let out another shrill stream of laughter as his predicted plummet came to pass.

Who needs two hands, anyways? He'd always have Roadie there to lend him one.

…

 _Oh_ bugger all! He should've lead with that zinger.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic was almost called "head full of snakes", but as I was about to type that in, the play on words that is the current title popped into MY head, and I could tell by my instinct to punch myself in the face that I had to go with it.


End file.
